


stood beneath an orange sky

by sskkyyrraa



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sskkyyrraa/pseuds/sskkyyrraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 12 Part Dexter Grif Character Study beginning with his experiences with his surgery and ending with the aftermath of Season 12 </p><p>(Aka RVB12 Spoilers alert)</p>
            </blockquote>





	stood beneath an orange sky

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the song Orange Sky by Alexi Murdoch which was my inspiration for this fic so you should give it a listen

1.

 

The first time Grif wakes up, he is not really awake. He barely manages to open his eyes before they roll back. Donut, who has stood by his side since he went under, squeezes his hand. Grif cannot see and his lips move with unspoken words. Simmons and Sarge are still in the next room. Simmons still being fit with the finishing touches of his cybernetics. Donut closes Grif's eyelids for him and holds on tight because that's the best he can do right now.

 Donut is not sure how long it takes before Grif wakes up again but when he does Simmons is pacing around the room like a nervous wreck. Grif spasms, gripping tight at Donut's hand. His pupils are blown and he tries to scream but he can't. Tears roll from his right eye. Simmons lunges for the bottle of their strongest alcohol. He struggles with getting the straw between Grif's clenched teeth. He instinctively drinks. His spasms end after a long four seconds. Donut wipes away both his own and Grif's tears with shaky hands. Simmons holds the back of Grif's head up while forcing him to drink more and more. When he pulls the bottle away Grif coughs until his eyes roll back and he goes limp. Simmons sets his head back on the pillow and steps back, his still human eye wide. Donut takes his hand too and pulls him close, leaning against his side.

When Grif finally consciously wakes up, he is groggy. The room spins, his stomach turns, his head pounds a heavy rhythm, his throat scratches. He blinks. The left side of his face and head is covered in bandages. He does not remember being hurt. He glances over to see Donut sleeping with his head tucked into the crook of his elbow, arm pressed coolly against Grif's, hand loosely covering his. Grif can feel his soft breaths against the back of his hand.

Grif wonders how he could have fucked up so badly so as to have zero recollection of the event that ended him up with a head wound, Donut watching over him, and apparently on a table in the base center. He turns his head and groans seeing the empty bottle of whiskey on the ground. He slides his hand away from Donut and moves to push himself up. Before he can really even attempt to, he rolls to his side and vomits with a lurch over the side. It's mostly liquid but seeing and hearing it splash against the concrete flooring makes him retch harder. He almost feels bad for it getting on Donut's shoes but not too bad because he's got several extra pairs compared to everyone else. Also fuck Donut.

Donut wakes up with a start and then a yell, throwing himself back from Grif, tripping over his chair and landing on his ass a good distance away. Grif breathes hard through his mouth, eye screwed tight shut, leaning over the tabletop edge. He can hear Simmons and Sarge run in. He can hear Sarge start to yell at him for making a mess and throwing up, something that apparently, wouldn't have happened had he just stayed still and taken it easy. He decides to focus on his breathing even while he's flipped onto his back, a straw being pushed through his lips. He snaps open his eye and looks wildly around for the culprit but Donut is whining to Sarge and Simmons is gone. Grif takes a hesitant sip and is glad to taste water. Which is surprising because he thought they didn't have any water left. He pushes the straw from his mouth with his tongue. Donut leaves with his shoes held at an arm's length, Sarge following, shotgun slug over his shoulder despite not wearing his armor. Grif is left alone with a bottle of stale water and the smell of his own vomit. He'd be lying if he said he hasn't been in this situation before.

His left side is numb, his chest aches, he has more questions than answers, and he may still be drunk, so he lets himself drift off since no one is stopping him. He's on the edge of consciousness when he hears metal footsteps. Grif's heart stops and he listens hard. He should know everyone's footsteps and he thought he did, but he has no idea who's walking down the hall towards him. He's not afraid of the Blues and he wouldn't write them off as much more than a mild inconvenience but things have been getting weird lately. Not scary weird but... well, actually that black armored chick was scary. Anyways, whoever was coming down the hall was going to have a huge tactical advantage over Grif while he's just laying there on his back like an idiot. He moves to sit up, gritting his teeth because movement hurts a whole lot more than being stationary.

 “What the fuck do you think you're doing, idiot?” Simmons stands in the doorway, arms crossed with the mop and bucket just behind him. He wears his armor. Grif feels stupid for not knowing it was Simmons because he should have known, should have heard his footsteps and known. Why was he walking weird, stiff and heavy? Grif decides not to worry about it, falling roughly on his back, biting back a yell of pain. He turns his head and watches Simmons clean up his vomit. He feels mildly guilty but mostly tired and sore.

Simmons feels comfortable labeling Grif's sleep as a nap, cheek smooshed against the cool metal of the table and snoring lightly. He cleans up after Grif, fluffs the pillow around his head. He makes sure the water bottle (the last one, found tucked under a pile of wool socks inside a box behind the boxes of rations) is within reach and tucks a pack of Oreos into Grif's pocket for him to find later. He does not linger. Instead he leaves the room, his gait heavy and stilted.

 

2.

 

Grif isn't hungry. He isn't tired either though he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he were. There's no pain medication, used up with most of the other medical supplies months ago. There hasn't been a useful supply drop in months. Donut was dropped off with the armor on his back, ammo and rations to accommodate for an extra mouth to feed, and an overstuffed duffel bag of personal belongings. There were pain meds when he was blown up by that grenade but only enough to last the two weeks he was out of commission. 

Grif's body is covered in uneven stitches and nasty bruises. He can't wear his armor because the chest plate presses into the Y shaped scar, the helmet is too heavy for the colorful bruising, and everything else pulls at his new skin, catching on bandages. He has caught only glimpses of it when Donut re-dresses the wounds every other day.

When he sleeps it is restless and nightmare ridden. He dreams of horrors beneath the bandages, of burnt skin and acidic sludge that drips and oozes. Sometimes black holes replace his eyes, sucking up the canyon and everyone with it. His screams too are lost in the darkness.

He has created a nest of pillows stolen from Donut, blankets from Simmons, his own bedding and clothes, soft things found around the base all in hopes that comfort will help ground him. He feels wrong and unbalanced, too heavy where the bandages wrap like tentacles around his limbs. At night he curls into himself, lying painfully on his left side to give the illusion he does not have them. The weight of his body cuts off the already delicate circulation and he goes numb. He ignores Donut's concerned questioning and the glow of Simmons' unblinking red eye. He pretends to sleep until the nightmares grip him and he feels like his lungs have stopped working.

He roams the dark halls and creeps along the shadow of the back of the base where the cliff is the only thing to look at. If Grif closes his eyes and focuses just on the sun's warmth he can imagine it's sand he digs his toes in and the Pacific Ocean that he smells. He thinks of home and very firmly of not here.

 

3.

 

Donut makes a cake for the occasion. It's frosted a bright orange and the center is made of chocolate and whipped cream. Grif assumes Donut just took a bunch of snack cakes and smashed them into a vaguely shape cake. He isn't sure where the icing is from but he finds it's for the better that he doesn't know. He takes a slice despite knowing he'll throw it up later. 

“Want a slice, Simmons?” Donut asks. Sarge is hunched over his plate, refusing eye contact as he shovels the sweet into his mouth. Somehow he manages to make even eating aggressive and unappealing.

“I don't eat, numbnuts,” Simmons says. He taps his metal finger against his metal shell of a stomach. It rings hollowly. Grif sets aside his plate.

“Alright! It's time to do the thing! Was the surgery a success? I'm torn between wanting Grif to be horribly disfigured and wanting to add surgeon to my resume!” Sarge cries wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Donut folds his hands and waits expectantly, his large blue eyes blinking with child-like wonder. Simmons won't look at Grif. Grif won't look at Simmons.

Grif hates that today is being made into a thing. He hates that it has to be a huge reveal to the team when he doesn't even want to look himself. Rolling up his sleeve, he picks up the red scissors that he's pretty sure were used during his surgery, if the blood is anything to go by. He snips at the bandage from the top of his shoulder. No one mentions the way his hands shake. Maybe no one notices. He glides the scissors down his arm and when they jam up midway, he starts ripping. The tearing sound is oddly satisfying.

The bandages fall to the ground and he ignores his arm, immediately cutting down his thigh, past his knee, and down to his ankle with increasing urgency. When he tugs off the head wrapping he has to blink at the sudden change in lighting. His arm and leg feel too naked and too cold. He shivers and his face is stiff on the left. He doesn't look for his teammates' reactions though Donut gasps and Simmons slaps his arm to shut him up.

His fingers are shaking as he holds out his arms.

 

4.

 

The first thing Grif's sister does is take off her helmet. She blinks in the sun and grins a crooked grin, one that's all teeth and reaches her eyes. It's strange to see such an expression on someone who looks so much like Grif. Her skin and hair are darker but she has the same round face with a smooth complexion, same eyes of brown. She's pretty with a wide nose and full lips, just like Grif's. Where Grif looks tired and bored, Sister is youthful and curious. Her eyes twinkle with something mischievous and her lips curl into a soft smirk.

“Jesus Christ, put your helmet back on! We're in the middle of a war!” Grif just about shrieks, voicing cracking with high emotion. Sister rolls her eyes, tosses a flirty smile in Simmons' direction, winks at Sarge, and dips her head back into her atrociously yellow helmet.

“Chill out, Dex. Do you really think something as small as a bullet could kill me? Pshh, as if!” she says. Her voice is just as cutting as Grif's though its more that she's loud and crass. She hugs Grif tight and everyone is immediately aware of the height difference. Grif is tucked under his baby sister's chin and forced into an awkward, armor clad embrace. She pulls him along, leading the rest of Red Team into their base.

Sister, who they soon find out is actually named Kai, is at Red Base for two days and two nights before she's sent to the Blues. Her presence changes little and when she leaves it is almost like she was never even there. The siblings spend all their time together, sitting on the base floor in civvies or standing on the roof, rifles slung over their shoulders as they keep a look out. The only thing to watch being the Blues' struggle with the huge aircraft. Sarge is gone and Donut is missing so it's just the Grifs and Simmons.

Kai doesn't question why Grif looks different, probably because she doesn't notice. She focuses on the sound of his voice and the rumble of his chest when she rests her head there for a nap. Kai smells like Hawai'i, like the sun and sand and ocean and the hibiscus that grew in their yard. She speaks to Grif in their native language and the vowels and syllables spill from his lips, comfortable and familiar like a favorite pair of jeans. He forgets that his skin is patchwork and his body is no longer his. With Kai's arrival, with the knowledge she is healthy and safe and _alive_ , he feels at peace that perhaps home is not a distant, fading memory but instead glowing, burning, thriving and with him. Home is where the heart is, after all.

 

5.

 

Kai hates the armor, choosing instead to dance barefoot in booty shorts and a loose crop top proclaiming that “Thick Thighs Save Lives”. She guides Simmons' hips in a rhythm to a tune she hums. She doesn't comment on how cool the metal is to the touch. She instead makes fun of his skinny legs and fantasizes aloud what he's capable of with his long, dexterous fingers. She laughs when he blushes and she laughs when he stumbles over his own feet. She is flirty and horny but she backs off when he panics and insists he isn't interested in her that way. Kai notices the way he watches Grif, notices the way he seems most at ease when Grif is close by, notices how the two of them complete each other, how they're in sync to the core. Kai notices how her brother is less bitter and more himself by Simmons' side, notices how when they fight there's a fondness in his face, notices that her brother has opened his heart again. Kai notices and she dances barefoot in booty shorts and a loose crop top proclaiming that “Thick Thighs Save Lives”.

 

6.

 

Grif is not allowed to say goodbye to Kai when he is re-stationed and promoted.

 

7.

 

He is allowed, instead, to say goodbye to Simmons before being shot by a firing squad.

 

8.

 

Simmons tries first to say something but Grif panics, needs to take his own shot at it. Grif interrupts, starts somewhere but ends up nowhere near where he wa- _needs_ to be. He can't believe he chickened out, chickened out at what could be his last chance, his very last chance to tell him that he--

 “--stole your identity and ran up all the charges at all the pawn shops and peep shows. Sorry,” Grif admits. He's glad for the visor and the option to turn off the speaker because he starts swearing to himself. He's freaking out to himself and somehow he manages to keep his voice calm and level as he continues. He feigns indifference and doesn't hear the anger and disappointment in Simmons' voice.

They don't die. But he almost dies again and again and again. He's sick of almost dying and almost admitting things he wants to admit but he can't, things he _shouldn't_ admit. He hates that he has heard the break in Simmons' voice, in Donut's, in _Sarge's_ voice. Insults are common, welcomed even, but at the end of the day all he has are those three assholes. He can't lose them. They can't lose him.

 

9.

 

The crash site is humid and sticky but it's still a canyon even if the grass is high and there are trees that loom. There is an eery ambiance constantly present. If you stand still and listen and look things go still and quiet and the hair on your neck stands up. No one dares consider it home though it's too easy to become comfortable.

Something and everything changes and the comfort brought on by routine is shattered. Tensions are high and there's a tightness in Grif's throat because Simmons is gone again to the Blues and Donut isn't dead like they thought but he isn't here. Sarge is there but Sarge will always be there because where there's Sarge, there's Red Team.

Grif remembers this when shit hits the fan and everyone is shooting and they run and there's an earthquake and the wall is coming down and Tucker is yelling and where's Simmons, where's Donut, where's Sarge? The wall is down and Grif is safe with Simmons and Caboose and Tucker. Donut is gone again but Donut is _always_ gone. Sarge is not there and Grif refuses to acknowledge the emptiness in his heart.

10.

 

Grif thinks about Sarge and Donut and even fucking Lopez for Christ's sake all the goddamn time. It fucks with his mind. Something breaks when Simmons points out he's acting like Sarge. He feels his body lock up and he can't breathe. He's vaguely aware of Matthews and Simmons asking if he's okay but they're distant behind the sound of the ocean roaring in his ear. He blinks hard. He pulls in a breath, one that fills his lungs until his head is light and dizzy. He teeters and Simmons touches his elbow.

Grif runs like he's never ran before. He's throwing his helmet at the tiny little cot that he refuses to call his. He's afraid to consider the run down New Republic his home, even if just temporarily. He doesn't call the room he sleeps in his, the clothes given to him aren't his but rather borrowed, he barely calls the Gold Team his team. He's not gold or yellow he's orange. He's not supposed to be leader of Gold Team, he's the lacky of Red Team. That's where he belongs.

Simmons comes to check on him and sits next to him, cot creaking. He takes off his helmet and sets it up neatly next to Grif's helmet. They sit proudly on the thin pillow, looking up to Grif and Simmons. Grif sits so the visor reflects his dark skin in his peripheries. He takes comfort in knowing even in reflection he is orange.

“You wanna talk about it?” Simmons tries. He watches a bead of sweat travel from Grif's temple along his hairline, crossing over from the pale skin that once was his to the tan of Grif's jaw and neck. Grif moves, causing his neck to flex. The bead falls and slides underneath the collar of his undersuit. Simmons licks his lips and his throat suddenly feels very tight. It takes him too long to realize that the movement was Grif shaking his head. Simmons swallows. “Okay. Then c'mon. There's gotta be Oreo's somewhere on this godforsaken planet.”

 

11.

 

There's relief when they find Sarge, Donut, Lopez, and Wash alive and well and safe. Well, as safe as they can be with all the shit going on. They all almost die fucking again but lo and behind! Carolina saves the day. They don't die and things are okay and normal. Sure, now they have to figure out this civil war shit but at least they're together. None of the Reds are dead or missing or beheaded or switching sides or being kicked in the balls. Grif never thought he'd feel old at 28 but here he was; twenty eight years old and feeling very old and very, very tired.

When Tucker is bleeding out on the med evac ship with Wash unconscious next to him, Grif does not look. He isn't worried because he knows how tough the Blues are and that they're important so there's no way any of them will really die. Church died twice and he's still dicking around except now he's a hologram and tiny. Grif does not watch because he's counting his squad, making sure all of Gold Team is there. He touches their heads, though most of them are taller than him, ticking them off like a good Captain. Bitters stands away, helmet held loosely in his hand and his blonde hair is stringy with sweat, sticking to his forehead and cheeks. He frowns as Grif walks to him. Grif pulls off his helmet and he is sweaty too though his hair is shorter from a forced haircut from Sarge and Simmons. He stands in front of Bitters and he can tell he's angry. A makeshift bandage is hastily and most likely improperly tied around his upper right arm, near his elbow. It's tied around his armor, between plates where it's just kevlar, but blood blossoms like a flower.

“You're alive.” Bitters stares hard at Grif, a challenge to try and bullshit his way out of an explanation. Grif nods. He knows better than to lie, he owes Bitters at least this much.

“Yes. I'm glad you're okay.” And he expects Bitters to yell and throw punches but instead his lip wobbles and he hugs Grif tight. It's a surprise and for a moment he doesn't know how to react. He looks around wildly for help and he sees Jensen embrace Simmons, her arms flung around his neck in a passion, he sees Smith hold out a hand for Caboose to shake but instead Caboose goes for a hug that lifts the Lieutenant in the air, he sees Palomo grip Tucker's hand and sob. Grif relaxes, pats Bitters' back twice and when Bitters steps back, he ignores the teenager's tears. They grip hands and Bitters smiles the first smile Grif has seen from him.

“Yeah, me too.”

 

12.

 

The future is not something Grif thinks about often and he definitely would rather ignore the past than lament on it. He prefers to live in the moment and usually that moment involves a nap or food, ideally both. When he takes off his armor in his temporary quarters on Chorus, he is thinking about both the future and the past. These quarters are new, set up in Harmonia and bigger and fancier than those at the New Republic headquarters. Rather than four low cots set up in the four corners of the room for each of the Captains, there are two crisp looking bunk beds in a room set up much like the base back at Blood Gulch. The difference is that the air is sticky and the doors slide open when accessed via a keypad. Sarge sleeps with his eyes open and cuddling a shotgun on the top bunk to the right, feet pointed to the door, rather than in his own room down the hall and past the bathroom. Otherwise, the set up is the same with Donut reading chick magazines on the top bunk and Simmons staring up at nothing while he tries to quiet his brain to something close to resembling sleep.

Grif sits on his bed, dressed in sweatpants and loose t-shirt. For the first time in a long while he feels like he can sleep peacefully. An incessant buzz pushes at the back of his mind, begging for a good night's rest. There's a safety in knowing where each and every member of the Reds are. Lopez stands idly in the corner, his head pointed to the floor like he's asleep. Grif knows the quiet won't last long, that soon they'll be following the Blues into another cluster fuck that will most likely get one of them almost killed, but that's for future Grif to worry about. Instead he focuses on Sarge's slow, rhythmic breathing, on Donut's nonsensical humming, on the glow of Simmons' cyborg eye. He bundles up under the light blanket and when he lays on his left side it's to keep watch of his teammates and family. He wonders about Kai, still refusing to believe she's dead. He imagines she has found a beach like home, somewhere where she can soak up the sun and dance barefoot. He imagines her happy, glowing brighter than a star. He knows they'll be together again, that she's blazing through the galaxy to find him. Grif hopes that when he sees his sister it'll be during a time of peace. He can't wait to share his new family in their whole with her.

“Goodnight, Simmons. Goodnight, Donut.”

“Goodnight, Grif! Goodnight, Simmons!”

“...Goodnight, Donut, Grif.”

Sleep comes easily to them all.


End file.
